


The Ghost of You

by trajektoria



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, Halloween, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-22
Updated: 2012-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-22 01:33:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/604349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trajektoria/pseuds/trajektoria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Halloween. Another empty day without Sherlock by John's side. And then a miracle happens - John sees a ghost of the person he misses so much. Could this possibly be real or did grief drive him insane?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ghost of You

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Твой призрак](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1032648) by [Sevima](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sevima/pseuds/Sevima)



October 31, Halloween. Just another day, another empty date in the calendar. All days were the same since Sherlock had died. John woke up, took a shower, went to work, returned from work, sat idly while staring blankly at the wall, took shower again, went to bed. Stuck in a loop. Dull, tedious, predictable, unbearable.

The stupor and ennui weren't all that bad, though. They helped John to distance himself, to switch his mind off, not to think about what he had lost and how hollow, how broken he felt. Nothing could change his miserable state. His friends' efforts to help him move on were all in vain. John noticed the grinning jack-o'-lantern that Mrs Hudson had put on the table in the faint hope to cheer him up, but the doctor didn't care. Not anymore. He closed his eyes slowly, sinking in Sherlock's armchair. Oh God, how he missed him...

"John..."

He still could hear Sherlock in his head. The man's deep voice, magnetic eyes, distracting cheekbones, his lean figure, his dark, curly hair haunted him during long, wakeful nights. 

"John..."

It was starting once again. Sherlock's voice triggered memories of their halcyon days together - brilliant memories, painful memories - that were breaking John's heart over and over. His eyes were stinging, tears forming at the corners and threatening to spill over, but he held them back as befitted a soldier.

"Sherlock."

"John."

That dialogue was resounding within him every day, a simple exchange of names where every sound conveyed so much. This time, though, the conversation didn't end there. Sherlock went on softly:

"Open your eyes, John."

"What for?" He replied aloud, pretending that he was not alone and he wasn't talking to a figment of his tortured mind.

"Open your eyes. Please. For me."

And John did. He still could do anything for Sherlock even if he was nothing more than an echo from the past.

The doctor's pupils widened at the sight.

There he was. By the mantelpiece. The familiar silhouette and those blue, staring eyes. The same, but oh so different. The man's skin was pale to the point of being transparent.

John rose slowly from the chair, his mouth agape in shock.

"Sh... Sher..." He wasn't able to say it.

"Hello, John." The spectre's voice was calm and even.

John's back hunched as he entwined his fingers in his hair, tugging at the locks anxiously. His face twisted in a grimace of pain and resignation.

"That's it. I finally lost it..."

"No, John." Sherlock shook his head pensively, keeping his ghostly eyes fixed on his friend. "You're not crazy. I'm real."

"But you're dead!" John yelled in a heartbreaking tone. He was trembling uncontrollably with anger, clenching his fists so hard that his knuckles turned white. "I've seen you fall! I've buried you!"

"Yes, you are correct. I am dead."

John stared at him, dumbstruck. Was it some kind of sick, Halloween joke? Or did all that grief really made him insane?

The doctor turned on his heel, determined to walk away from this delusion. However, something prevented him from doing that. Icy cold fingers coiled around his wrist.

"Don't go." The ghost whispered softly into John's ear, tightening the grip.

John squeezed his eyelids shut, tears starting to well up in his eyes. Did he not suffer enough? Why it had to feel so real? The touch, the voice, the coldness that resonated from Sherlock, were John's senses deceiving him so perfectly?

John finally shifted to face Sherlock, letting the tears flow. He bit his lower lip, peering intently at Sherlock with a mixture of hope, anguish and reproach.

"I can't believe, it's not true..." He muttered between muffled, agonizing sobs. "Stop haunting me! You're dead, gone!"

Sherlock didn't say a word. He just reached with his hand to John's face and gently wiped the tears away. John involuntarily leaned to the touch like he always wanted when Sherlock was still alive. When he still existed.

"Why are you here?" John whispered on the verge of audibility, staring into Sherlock's eyes. Why did they have to glisten with such intensity?

A sad smile tugged at the corner of Sherlock's lips as he realised how desperately John wanted to believe in him despite all rationality.

"I've always been here - the scent in the air, the quiet footsteps in the night, the voice in your head - but now you can see and touch me."

"Why now?"

"It's Halloween." Sherlock said matter-of-factly, as if it was self-evident. "The fabric between the world of the living and the world of the dead is the thinnest. Don't ask me why, it doesn't matter." He waved it off. "What is more important, though, is the fact that I'm here for a reason."

John kept silent, mulling everything over. The phantom looked like Sherlock, spoke like Sherlock and behaved like Sherlock. Could it really be him?

"Are you here because of me?" John ventured to ask plaintively.

"Yes." Sherlock nodded. "You can't let go, can't move on, because you're tormented by the things you wanted to say, but never did. So if you want to tell me something, now is the time." His mercurial eyes seemed to pierce right through John's soul.

 _He knows, oh God, he knows..._ Watson lowered his gaze. Even if Sherlock was nothing more than an illusion, John couldn't bring himself to lie to him.

"What's there left to say that I haven't already said to a gravestone?" He asked bitterly.

"The gravestone can't answer you back" Sherlock stated calmly, not letting his voice quiver. Yes, he had heard everything, every curse and plea, just as he saw every tear that John had shed.

John swallowed the lump in his throat as he was making an internal decision. Finally, he looked up at Sherlock, his expression stern.

"What would it change anyway?"

John's tone was hostile, but Sherlock didn't relent.

"At the very least you'll get everything off your chest and stop thinking about it."

John let out a humourless scoff, but then his face twisted into a distraught grimace. How could he ever forget Sherlock, the person who meant so much to him? The doctor grit his teeth not allowing the tears to stain his cheeks again.

"Yes, there's something I haven't told you." He whispered with resignation.

"You can tell me now, I'm listening." The ghost said patiently, not wanting to rush John.

John had to take a few deep breaths to compose himself. Still, his voice was failing him.

"I thought that we still had time, so I've always kept putting it off, waiting for a right moment. But the right moment never came, I was too scared." He confessed grudgingly. Every word caused him almost physical pain. "I didn't know how you would react and to destroy what we already had... no, I wouldn't risk that. So if you have to know..." He stared at Sherlock and uttered the dreaded phrase. "I loved you."

Sherlock's face brightened up, even though his eyes were awash with sadness.

"And I loved you, John. I still do."

That was too much for the good doctor. A feeling of deep sorrow flooded through him and he completely fell apart.

"How can you say that? Stop this, don't be so cruel!" He choked on his tears, waves after waves of sobs rocking his body. "You're just a product of my imagination, you're dead! You left me!"

"I can stay with you if you want me..." He said, leaning closer to him, but John stopped the spectre with a scream full of anguish.

"You're not even real!"

"How's that not real?" Sherlock reached out to him and ran his fingers through John's sandy hair.

John closed his eyes as the electric spark run down his spine, causing him to shiver. How could that not be real? He felt a sudden revelation within him. What difference did it make whether Sherlock was just an illusion or not? For the past few months John was miserable to the point of considering a suicide. If being with Sherlock meant plunging into the world of delusions, then why not? His own sanity was a price he was willing to pay.

He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck and pulled him to a deep, longing snog. Kissing him felt like submerging into cold water, but he didn't care right now. Emptying his mind of any doubts, he lost himself in this sensation.

When their lips parted, John gazed at him with despair.

"Will you stay with me then?" He asked weakly, tones of supplication in his voice.

"Yes." The spectre answered curtly, putting his icy hand on John's hip.

"Forever?"

After a long and meaningful silence came a reply that vindicated John's fears.

"No."

The doctor's heart sank.

"Why not?"

Sherlock reached out tenderly to smooth an errant lock of hair from his friend's forehead.

"Because one day - many years from now - you will die and we won't meet again."

John shot him a panicked glance.

"Why? I can't bear never to see you again!"

Sherlock cupped his face and started dejectedly:

"We won't see each other again because I refused the afterlife." John didn't understand so he kept explaining. "When a person dies he is transported into heaven, purgatory or hell. But in order to go there, he needs to renounce everything that is connected with earthly life, his loved ones included. And..." He suspended his voice for a moment. "And I couldn't do it. So now I'm stuck in this plane. Not entirely dead but not alive either."

John gave him a determined look. When he started speaking, his voice was unfaltering.

"And where is the problem? I can refuse the afterlife too and we'll be together."

Sherlock stared at him carefully.

"Would you do that for me? Throw away an eternity of happiness?"

John shook his head slowly, a smile flickering across his face.

"You still don't get it, Sherlock. How could I be happy without you?"

Sherlock beamed at him, a hint of blush reddening his pale cheeks.

"Thank you, John."

Watson didn't understand what was going on. If Sherlock was dead how could his face be flushed? The doctor's trained fingers shot mechanically to his friend's wrist where the pulse was racing. A pulse! John observed in awe how Sherlock was becoming more and more material, his skin losing the ghastly pallor.

It was so strange to fill the lungs with air and to feel the rush of blood in the veins once again. Sherlock's grin widened as he looked at John's confused face.

"You did it! I knew you would!" His eyes glimmered when he exclaimed confidently, arms enfolding his partner.

John still didn't know what had just happened, but when Sherlock pulled him into a tight hug, everything stopped to matter. John never hoped to feel his warmth again. Sherlock's heart was thrumming deafeningly against his own. Only that simple sensation was important right now. John sighed softly, truly content and happy for the first time in months.

"What did I do?" He asked hesitantly after a while. 

Sherlock couldn't help but to chuckle, mirroring John's happiness.

"When I refused to truly die I knew I'd have to find a way to get back to the world of the living. My only hope was Halloween. So I've made a deal with Moriarty."

"With Moriarty?" John gasped in surprise. "What he has to do with it?"

"Let's just say that he's high in the hierarchy of demons." Sherlock smirked. "Anyway, we've made a deal. If on Halloween I were to convince you to give up your eternity for me, I would get a second chance and be resurrected. But should I fail, I would perish forever. I knew you wouldn't let me down and you didn't disappoint me."

John looked at him in amazement, still processing the explanation.

"This is the most ridiculous story I've ever heard. But you know what? I don't care." John wasn't sure if he should be laughing or crying from joy, so he did both, getting all maudlin. Never in his entire life had he been so elated. He kissed Sherlock, ran his fingers lightly over his supple lips and then kissed him again. The rapture was so overwhelming that he almost heard church bells in his head...

 

John jumped and shot his eyes open, hearing the doorbell. He looked around the living room in confusion. Where did Sherlock go? He was just kissing him!

And then everything dawned on him. It was just a dream. The most callous and cruel dream he had ever experienced. John slumped back in Sherlock's armchair reduced to a series of pitiful sobs. He couldn't go on like this, no, he couldn't... That was too much. How many times could Sherlock break his heart?

The doorbell kept ringing, but John ignored it lost in his own misery. He vaguely recognised the sound of Mrs Hudson's footsteps and her gentle voice when she went to answer the door.

It took a piercing scream of the woman to arrest John's attention. Without thinking twice, he ran downstairs ready to protect Mrs Hudson from any danger.

The moment he appeared in the hallway he realised why Mrs Hudson was screaming. And who was standing at the door, dressed up as a ghost and holding a bag of candies.

"Sh... Sher..." He wasn't able to say it.

"Hello, John." The spectre's voice was calm and even.


End file.
